I’m just here to tell it like I see it. To write it as I percieve it. Just one voice speaking to masses, in hopes just one might receive it. Eyes open, who is prepared to believe it… 


She Bleeds

keep cutting your wound, (and)

wanting it to get better.

it don’t.

suffer in silence,

he’ll come to you.

he won’t.

The silence rooted in my core

coming from a place abhorred

where every kindness for granted

and every cruel adored.

To be IT your attitude had to be shit,

with a no back down and a never quit.

And a any day of the week willing to get lit.

nowadays that’s a top notch bitch

oh i forgot injected hips and a sway that switch.


you say i’m better?

nah i’m the mother fucking best.

i’ve been up and down this roller coaster, i’ve passed the test.

i outlasted the bullshit and the rest

and you have the audacity to still treat me like less??

i want passion and

words with action.

fuck i want the whole goddamn

fatal attraction…

now i know i deserve it;

and you know how i serve it.

so play yourself if you want to

but i’ll tell you what you NOT gone do…

disrespect and wack ass sex

mixed with dirty dishes and a wack ass check…

no motivation or progress forward

no goals or aspirations toward..

let me live and learn

and then think with my scars i don’t know a burn?!

Muscle Mass

Housekeeping. The job nobody wants but someone has to do…

The daily grind of unflushed toilets and heavy duvet lifting. Running back and forth from laundry room to floor #4. Pushing heavy carts and cramming into elevators. Rarley tipped and commonly complained upon. This is my job.


Recess. 3rd grade, Mrs Blackley’s class. I didn’t have any friends, which could be blamed on the fact that my mom gave me army buzzcuts regularly or maybe because she was a teacher at the school. Either way recess for me wasn’t spent huddled in secret sharing circles with the other girls. Or playing sports with the boys. I was more interested in nature, the wind in my hair from swinging, and investigating the plants that grew on the playground. 

The Hers

I sit on the edge of the bed trembling from another night of nightmares. Most people dream of getting robbed or falling from high altitudes. Me? I dream of you. And her, all those hers..

It feels as though my soul is being eaten away slowly, by some unseen illness akin to necrotising fasciitis. The tension in my neck, from fighting this unconscious battle will last for hours. I wake to the real thing; which isn’t as crude but basically equals the same rejoinder. 

There is an ache inside my chest. I don’t think the source could be approximated to my physical heart, but it makes all the media references sensible. In the dream this particular woman had your child and your respect… in reality she only has your respect. Yet, I do not have either. So sitting here on the edge of the bed, I want to cry and I guess, a part of me wants you to wake up and comfort me. Knowing full well that your comfort comes at too high of a cost. So, I try my best to shake off the immediate feeling of extreme depression and leave our shared bed where you sleep soundly…nothing new there. For it seems my nightmares are your version of a really good dream. 

As I sit at the window filling my body with nicotine, smoking one, then two. My mind drifts to the day I met you, this has become a tortured pastime of mine… Trying to recall how the past became the present and what about you made me so willingly blinded. 

I never had an ‘easy’ life, and that is not to say woe is me, because I never felt like that, at least not after childhood. Though I did use to wonder at why nothing was ever handed to me like my friends. Why I had to earn every morsel of food and I had to manipulate for every teaspoon of love. But, that was all I knew and therefore all I expected from life when I met you….

I was a dreamer, a hopeless romantic and my hardest critic. I knew I had to be, because in order to survive on the lone path life had chosen for me, I had to always be prepared and ready to be whatever I needed to be. But the dreamer and the hopeless romantic? I blame the PG rated movies and thousands of books my childhood/teen self, used to escape my bleek and at times dark reality. 

–To Be Continued–

The un-Balanced Social Scale

I was thinking to myself looking across the road at this all white trucking company… Where could a black man go where he was greeted and viewed as an equal? I mean, we all know there was one black person stuffed in some dark corner of the business but, when I say ‘all white’ I’m sure the masses understand that meeting some ‘quota’ to keep your money flowing in, and actually integrating other races and affiliations into the company is NOT a liKed concept nor is it given any kind of actual precedence or press.
Then that got me to thinking why is that? We can easily find Mexicans with landscaping companies and Asians with Reseraunt chains and Indians with hotel stocks. But African Americans? Not one. Does this, maybe have something to do with the fact that, those other races are seen as ‘true immigrants’ no history of ownership or inslavitude, no reparations owed, but never received. Through racism and intentional brainwashing (media and music) they keep our families torn and our minds on the liquor stores on the corner and the club down the street because after all the only blacks I see who make it are in the music videos or in the ring. You don’t have to value education, or learn beneficial networking skills because the truth of the matter is after all, sometimes ‘it’s not what ya know but who ya know’. “YOLO” started by people who worked hard to make something of themselves yet all we see portrayed in the media is the money cars and clothes (not to mention the hoes), making us value how we look to others, through superficial numbers that never add up in our favor. Such as, the more women you can get that much more of a man you are…but see how those numbers don’t add up because yes you may get ten women pregnant but if that was your only goal then you lose, because now we have more kids out there who didn’t have the guidance about life they deserved so they grow up to become men who reiterate the notion that we don’t need to own businesses, bank accounts, have a leg to stand on let alone a seat at the white man’s table.